


how dreams end

by AngelQueen



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Angst, Depressing, Everybody Dies, Everything Hurts, Gen, Jossed, episode speculation, hold me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-17
Updated: 2012-12-17
Packaged: 2017-11-21 08:32:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/595656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngelQueen/pseuds/AngelQueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The world has come crashing down.</p><p>Speculation for 5x12/5x13.</p>
            </blockquote>





	how dreams end

**Author's Note:**

> **SPOILERS** for the trailers for 5x12 and 5x13.
> 
> Yeah, this came out in one big burst of emotion. Because the trailers nearly killed me, and I think the episodes themselves may just finish the job. *sob*

It all happens in a haze.

(Mordred cuts Gaius down, his eyes burning with hate.

 _How does it feel to lose someone you love, Emrys?_ His sword, forged in Aithusa’s fire - _oh Aithusa_ , he thinks, _how_ could _you_ \- rips free of Gaius’ chest and he slumps to the ground, his pale, wrinkled face slack with shock.

 _A life for a life, Emrys,_ Mordred hisses in his mind. _You stole Kara from me. Consider Gaius’ life your repayment._

Merlin’s howl of grief is heard only by cold, unyielding stone.)

He never knows how much time passes.

(The fields of Camlann are stained red with the blood of his friends.

 _How does it feel to see them all fall, Emrys?_ Mordred’s tone is almost pleasant, as if they are discussing the weather, or the latest gossip from the lower town. _How does it feel to be utterly helpless, unable to protect them?_

Merlin’s tears are dried by crusty, dry dust.)

Everything just falls on him, blow after blow after blow.

(Arthur and Mordred drive through the fighting straight toward each other. It’s like everyone is parting before them, clearing a path.

 _He’s going to kill him, Emrys,_ Morgana whispers in his mind’s ear. _Mordred is going to end your precious Arthur once and for all. Then Camelot will be mine, and you will have lost. I win, Emrys. Our game is finally over, and I win._

Mordred approaches Arthur, bearing a sword every bit as powerful as Excalibur and his heart dark with rage and hatred. Arthur stares at Mordred, his face a mask of grief, but he raises Excalibur resolutely.

One will not leave this confrontation alive.

Their weapons clash -)

- _Merlin snaps._

* * *

His magic has returned to him, but it isn’t what it should be. His control is spotty, at best, but Merlin doesn’t care much.

He doesn’t know how he makes it from the cave to the battlefield, but somehow he does. He walks through the carnage in the guise of the old man, unable to break the spell and not really caring. All he can see is death.

There are Kilgharrah and Aithusa, wound around each other and bleeding into the ground. The last dragons, gone. Now there is only a Dragonlord, the last of their kin with no one left to understand. 

There is Gwaine, and Percival, and Leon too. Brave and valiant to the end. The ground around them is littered with the bodies of the Saxons. They took many with them.

Among those bodies is Morgana, not far from Gwaine’s body.

 _So Gwaine found his revenge, after all,_ Merlin thinks as he approaches her slowly.

But no, not completely. Gwaine is dead, Morgana is not. She bleeds from her wounds and from her mouth, but she still draws breath. He stops next to her and stares down. She stares back up, and raises a blood-stained hand. “H-Help me, Emrys… please,” she whispers, her voice cracking and broken. Emrys. It’s like she doesn’t even remember that he’s actually Merlin. Perhaps Merlin doesn’t even exist for her anymore, only Emrys.

His fingers clench around the staff that has suddenly appeared in his hand - where had that come from? Hadn’t it been left in his room back in Camelot, the room Merlin somehow knows he’ll never step foot in again? - and suddenly, Merlin is able to _feel_ again.

All he feels is rage.

“Is this really what you wanted, Morgana?” he thunders. “Are you happy now? Look around you! They’re all dead! Everyone is _dead_!”

She stares up at him pale, bloody, and terrified. “Please…” she breathes, and her breath comes out with a faint red mist, coating her chin.

He wants to kill her, so badly. He wants to thrust his staff down on her head, to end her miserable life. He wants to finish what he started so many years ago. She’s caused so much suffering, so much death. He wants her to suffer. What pains she’s felt before should be _nothing_ in comparison -

But no. Death would be a release from her pain, he realizes. Death would be a blessing, one Morgana most assuredly does _not_ deserve. Still angry but now resolute, Merlin raises his staff. She flinches, and true fear crosses her features, but he doesn’t care. With a few hissed words, magic flies from him to her. It’s wild and uncontrolled, but it still does its intended work. 

Merlin doesn’t stay to watch her heal, to watch the magic strip away her mortal life and replace it with an unending, unchanging, immortal one.

They are each other’s destiny and each other’s doom, he realizes (though where such a phrase comes from, Merlin doesn’t rightly know), and will be so for eternity now. Just as she’s stolen everyone he’s ever loved, so too has he taken from her the chance of ever being reunited with that bitch she called Sister.

Now, they are even, at least in his mind. He doesn’t care if she will argue with him on that.

He keeps walking amongst the dead, red and black melded together in a chaotic mass of destruction. It isn’t until he reaches the center of the field that a flash of gold catches his eye. One is gold surrounded by silver, long and sharp - Excalibur. It is buried in someone’s chest. Merlin’s breath catches in his throat and he quickens his pace.

It’s Mordred. The boy lies on scorched earth, blue eyes staring sightlessly up at the red sky. Another destiny fulfilled, Merlin thinks bitterly. Just as Kilgharrah had warned him, Mordred had killed Arthur (because he knows Arthur is dead - there is nothing but death on this field, death, death, death) -

A faint groan reaches Merlin’s ear and he whirls. Another flash of gold, only this one dulled by dirt and sweat and blood -

Arthur, lying just a few feet away, struggling feebly.

The cry that Merlin chokes out is almost animalistic in its intensity. He trips over a discarded sword and falls hard on his knees next to Arthur’s body. Carefully, he slips his arm under his king’s shoulders, lifting him up and pulling him close. Arthur’s breathing is shallow, and is growing fainter with every passing moment. 

Arthur is dying.

Merlin sobs. His rage, his anger, is all hollow in the face of this inescapable fact.

He has failed. Failed Arthur, failed the dream of an Albion united, failed the hope of everyone living in peace. Failed everything.

Then Arthur’s eyes flutter open, still beautifully blue. Their gazes meet, and Arthur’s brow wrinkles quizzically. He doesn’t recognize him, and Merlin realizes that he still wears the form of the old man.

For over ten years, Merlin has kept the secret of his magic. For more than a decade, he has hid the most vital part of himself from his king, his friend, his destiny. 

Now it all seems so stupid, so useless.

Before he can even form another coherent thought, Merlin feels the magic of his disguise fading. The old man slowly vanishes, and then it is just him, just Merlin, holding onto Arthur as the last anchor in a world turned upside down.

Arthur stares up at him, his eyes widening in something akin to awe. “M… Merlin,” he breathes, cringing when he begins to cough. Suddenly, Merlin can feel the wetness of Arthur’s abdomen. He doesn’t need to look to know that it’s blood, blood from the wound Mordred inflicted. When the coughing at last subsides, Arthur sighs, a weary sound. “Oh, Merlin…” It’s all he seems to be able to say.

The stench of death wafts across Merlin’s nostrils and a part of him heaves from the smell. He doesn’t want to be here anymore, doesn’t want Arthur to be here, doesn’t want life and death to intermingle like this.

All it takes is a word, a single hiss, and suddenly everything living is ripped away from this place of death. Merlin, Arthur, even Morgana, all torn away from the red-stained field to the shores of a lake, calm and peaceful against a mountainous backdrop.

It’s a lake that Merlin knows all too well. It’s the lake where he buries the people he loves. Freya first, then his father (in secret, of course), then Lancelot too. Perhaps it is all too fitting that Arthur should come here, where they both first tasted the hints of Avalon (even if Arthur probably doesn’t even remember). 

Merlin feels Morgana’s presence behind him, stirring, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t fear her anymore. She can’t do anything more than she’s already done. 

The sound of rhythmic stroking captures his attention and Merlin looks up toward the water. A boat comes toward him, unlike anything he has ever seen. White, large, with several oars on either side, all manned by… women? Standing at the bow is a slight, dark-haired figure with a pale, sweet face that he hasn’t seen in so long.

“Freya…”

The boat makes land just inches from where Merlin kneels, Arthur still held securely in his arms. Morgana is approaching slowly, warily, and he knows she doesn’t even notice him. Her attention is also riveted on these newcomers.

Freya smiles sadly at him. “It is time, Merlin,” she says quietly. “Give him to us. We will care for him now.”

Merlin can feel the sting of tears, can feel the stabbing pain in his heart. “It’s not supposed to be this way,” he whispers.

“You could do nothing to prevent it,” she corrects. “It had to be this way, to prevent an even greater evil, Merlin. Now, it is his time to rest, to wait until he is needed again.”

Hope, desperate and wild, springs in his chest. “Again?”

Freya says nothing more. She raises her hand, and beckons. Before he can react, Arthur’s body rises gently from the shore, out of Merlin’s grasp, and floats toward the boat. Part of Merlin wants to protest, to lunge and grab onto Arthur, or to even throw himself into the boat after him, but he doesn’t. He can only watch, as Freya’s companions shift to allow for room for Arthur to lay at the center of the vessel.

“Patience, Merlin,” Freya whispers. “All will be well again, one day.”

There is nothing else to be said. The boat slides off again, moving out over the lake, leaving Merlin and Morgana standing there alone. 

They stay there in silence even as the sun dips down below the mountains, long after the boat vanishes in the evening mists.


End file.
